


development

by hardlyhurtmenow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Lactation Kink, Not!Fic, Parent/Child Incest, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyhurtmenow/pseuds/hardlyhurtmenow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But I have been kicking around a few thoughts for a while, regarding the sacrifices to the Nemeton, and the possibility that the Nemeton might regrow itself.</p><p>And what kind of effect that might have on the women involved in that ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	development

Sadly, I cannot write omega milk bars (although I submit for your consideration: Omega Derek Hale who caters almost exclusively to the to-go crowd, working himself on an artificial knot while a mechanical pump drives him half-crazy). But I have been kicking around a few thoughts for a while, regarding the sacrifices to the Nemeton, and the possibility that the Nemeton might regrow itself.

And what kind of effect that might have on the women involved in that ritual.

I don’t really think that it’d start with Melissa — no, if any of them changed “first,” it’d be Allison, being the one who actually went into the ice bath — but I suspect that, in as much as anybody was allowed to notice a change, it would be Melissa and Scott first. Scott would probably smell it first, the way his mother’s scent turned sweeter, creamier. He’d know better than to ask; you basically never ask about the biological smells, and you definitely don’t ask about the biological smells of grown women.

But he’d totally notice, sharp new true alpha senses and all.

The Nemeton doesn’t need its sacrifices thinking about what it’s doing. It’d be as unobtrusive as possible with the after-effects of its spell.

Which really just amounts to it seeming unremarkable to Melissa, when she headed up into the attic and started digging through the boxes. She’d sent most of her pregnancy and maternity stuff here when Scott had still been a toddler, always sure that someday she’d donate what she could and toss what she couldn’t. But, well, for some reason her conscious mind kept kind of slipping away from, she needed her old nursing bras. Sterile scrubs could cover a number of sins, and were meant to be around a number of fluids, but leaking milk did not get any less embarrassing the older you got.

She probably didn’t even think about it when she tossed a pack of disposable nursing pads into her shopping cart. Nothing to worry about there.

And it probably seemed pretty normal, the way Scott started clinging closer. Burying his nose in her shoulder, or running it lightly over the cuve of her collarbone, when he could reach it. He’d just nearly died — if Stiles could be trusted over Scott and Deaton, he had died — and she’d been kidnapped. A little extra closeness was a totally natural reaction.

Less natural was the way he brought his hands up, some nights, running them over the thickening curve of her breasts. Less natural was the way she let it happen, but every time she tried to pin down exactly what was going on, why she should push Scott away and maybe have a “so you’re a werewolf now, but this is still inappropriate” talk, it would all slip away. Darting silvery and too fast to catch in the ebb and flow of the inevitable and ineffable bullshit that living in Beacon Hills meant dealing with.

And that gradual decline, that gentle saunter downward into… well, something, that probably explained why it just seemed so easy, that one rare Saturday afternoon she found herself spending with Scott at the house. Admittedly, she was exhausted from working three successive doubles, and Greenaway had sent her home early that Saturday morning with the instructions not to come back until late Sunday or early Monday. But still: easy.

Scott went out to the grocery store for a few pints of Ben and Jerry’s. Melissa ordered a pizza. They queued up a Disney marathon on Netflix, then sat back on the couch.

At some point Scott’s toenails — or, face it, his claws — had poked holes in his socks, and one of his smaller toes was sticking out. Naturally, he’d stretched out so the offending foot was on the coffee table, right in her line of vision and distracting her from the singing Jamaican crab. It was easy to nudge his foot with hers until he stretched out on the couch, his feet dangling off the far end.

Easy, to let Scott turn so his head was near her shoulder. To let his hands wander up her stomach, warm, soft fingers — should a boy’s fingers be that soft? Or maybe the werewolf healing had taken his calluses — still larger than she’d expected.

Scott began tugging at the waistband of her shirt, and she didn’t say anything. Just pushed away the Phish Phood and let him. She’d taken to keeping the house warm, as warm as a drafty old pseudo-Victorian place was likely to be, but as he pushed her shirt all the way up, her nipples responded anyway. They’d been less sensitive, these last sixteen years, but they still got cold just fine.

They pulsed, almost throbbing, and it was such a familiar feeling. The world almost splintered into clarity, but then Scott pressed his nose against her collarbone again, snuffling in a deep breath — that was familiar, too — and she lost the thread.

Ahead of them, on the TV screen, the octopus witch was singing something deep and sinister, but Melissa reached out and buried one hand in hair that had once been an unruly mop of curls and now was cropped close to his head. She guided his mouth over one of her tingling, almost aching nipples, and sighed as he went unresisting.

He swirled his tongue around at first, sucking gently. Like this was about something else. But he seemed to figure out quickly that he needed to keep his whole mouth around the areola, and soon his plush lips were drawing something warm out of her. Her whole body seemed to pulse to the beat of her heart and her nipple almost ached with it, but her breast felt better.

Scott’s eyes drifted closed and he worked one hand over her right breast, even as he moved his free hand down between them, trailing down her stomach and into her pajama pants.

Any hint of the world coming clear, of anything falling into place and making sense, vanished as her son’s big, soft, startlingly hot fingers snuck their way past her underwear. He paused in his suckling, tearing a groan from her, as he pressed his thumb against her clit. He slipped a finger inside her, more easily than she would have expected, and then a second, and any thought or complaint vanished as he curled his fingers and worked her from the inside out.

And then his mouth was back on her, drawing milk. Easing tension she hadn’t known she was feeling. She was torn between the familiar seeming comfort of his mouth and the white-hot motions of his hands, unable to decide which she wanted more, left so boneless and breathless by both that she let her right leg dangle off the sofa.

The gentle circles around and against her clit ground into her, harder and faster, and there was no helping the way her hips rocked into him or the way she pulled Scott closer.

He switched from left breast to right, and his fingers curled just perfectly, and Melissa’s entire body left her control for a handful of seconds. Blessedly empty on one side, and emptying on the other, her skin warmed from her sternum to her knees and toes, thanks to Scott’s body heat —

It built, stacking feeling after feeling on top of her, pleasure on top of relief on top of subtle, quivering tension in her hips and thighs and much, much deeper —

And then it burst, and she was almost sobbing something into Scott’s neck, even as Scott soothed her, even as Scott kept suckling, kept teasing out something warm and wet in nearly painful glide of his mouth over her.

At last, when he was full, he dropped sleepily against her, pressed one juice-slick palm to one breast and one drier palm to the other, soothing her aching nipples with warmth and softness.

She reached a hand down, skimming it along his stomach until she had his boxers parted. His cock was already hard, but he’d completely ignored it. Such a considerate boy she’d raised.

It was easy, natural to lick her palm. To rub her fingers around the head, gently at first, then wrap her hand around him and jack him the way Raf had liked, with a firm grip and a twist on the upstroke. Easy, to jack him until he was spilling hot and white and sticky in her hand. Not worth thinking about, as she drew her hand up to her mouth and tasted, curious.

Not worth remembering, when she woke the next morning with her hand plastered to her face. Somewhere, three miles deep in the forest her son was learning, the wind blew through the branches of a tree that had been chopped down and burned long before she’d been a child.


End file.
